Syndra Sage

6. Power, Fear, and Destiny

6. Power, Fear, and Destiny

Isolde's grip on Syndra's arm was firm, though not unkind. The elder's gaze flickered from the path ahead to the young woman beside her, sensing the quiet storm swirling within her granddaughter's heart.

The forest was alive, its heartbeat pulsing beneath their feet, and as they ventured deeper into the ancient woods, Syndra felt a strange tension building within her. The trees stretched toward the heavens like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches woven together in an eternal embrace. Delicate pink petals drifted lazily through the air, carried by a warm breeze that whispered secrets from another time. The faint rustle of leaves sang in harmony with the rhythm of their steps. Their white robes fluttered like ghosts against the shadowed backdrop, a quiet contrast to the deep, mysterious woods that encased them. It felt as though the world itself was watching, waiting, holding its breath.

Syndra's mind raced, a swirling fury of thoughts and emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Her birthday was days away, and with it, the power she had always known would awaken inside her. But even as the excitement simmered beneath her skin, there was something else—something unsettling. Her mother, Elowen, the leader of the coven, had been distant, avoiding her, hiding something from her. Something about this moment—about what was coming—felt wrong, like a puzzle missing a piece.

Syndra finally broke the silence. "Grandma... do you think mother is hiding something from me?"

Elder Isolde's fingers tightened around Syndra's arm, her touch both comforting and firm. The elder's voice was soft but heavy with a knowing that only time, wisdom, and a life buried in magic could give.

"Your mother... carries many burdens, Syndra. Burdens that fall on the ones who are called to lead."

Syndra's heart twisted in confusion and longing. There had always been distance between her and her mother, but recently it had grown unbearable. Madame Sage had always been cold and enigmatic, her love a distant thing, measured in rare moments of fleeting tenderness. But now, she seemed to withdraw even further, as though a shadow was creeping between them—one that Syndra could neither intercept nor comprehend.

"I don't understand her. Why can't she be here, helping me prepare for... this? Why won't she talk to me about the powers I'll inherit? She's wanted me back in Riddan for so long but now it seems she's come to terms with my time away, yearns for it really."

Isolde's gaze softened, and for a brief moment, Syndra saw the centuries of wisdom in her grandmother's eyes. The elder's voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of ancient truths—truths that had been passed down through generations of witches.

"Your mother was born with a gift, yes, but it is not a gift she wanted. She was called to lead the coven, and that terrified her until she learned to put her own desires aside. You see, child, magic is not simply a power we wield—it is a part of who we are. It shapes us. It is the thread that binds us to the world, to each other, to the realm itself. And your mother... she feared that thread would strangle her, so she cut it. She turned away, thinking she could live without it."